38 ❧ chapter one
cuss and dispute their ideas. They present what looks to us like a curious
mixture of covered-wagon and Bible-belt tradition with all the irredentism
of our Deep South, but disconcertingly combined with a patriarchal dignity
which often confers upon them a kind of terrible beauty. This I sensed last
week when I gave a lecture at the University of Stellenbosch. (I donated the
lecture fee to the defendants in the “treason trials” that are now going on in
Johannesburg).
This morning I was taken on an excursion to one of the “locations” outside
Cape Town. While the sirens of police cars howled in every direction, we vis-
ited the classroom of an elementary school where the teacher told us in some
detail what he was allowed to teach and what was forbidden to him. With him
I had the only direct conversation with a black that I have had in all my stay
in South Africa. We left just in time to return for lunch at one of Cape Town’s
grandest houses, formerly that of General Smuts. Only halfway through the
superb meal did I realize that the long necklaces worn by my hostesses were,
in fact, ropes of uncut diamonds.
I had not originally intended to play any concerts in South Africa. My
acceptance of the lectureship had been motivated by a certain curiosity about
Africa and by the knowledge that, without some kind of professional pretext,
I would probably never go there. But when the harpsichord had completed
its long journey from Ansbach to Cape Town, I was persuaded to give a few
concerts, including those in Johannesburg that were responsible for one of
the funniest episodes in my entire career.
Johannesburg
On reading the Rand Daily Mail, we were not pleased with the tone its
critic, Mrs. P. [Dora Sowden], has chosen to take, given the abundance of
ignorance she has already revealed. If she has ever even heard of Byrd and
Sweelinck, we are quite certain she cannot tell one from the other. Neverthe-
less, she writes that I have not suffi ciently distinguished between their two
styles. We all feel that the second concert affords a perfect chance to put her
politely but fi rmly in her place. Under most circumstances what I propose
to do would be an affront, both to audience and to music, but we know that
here the public will be squarely behind us.
After my fi rst group of pieces, I will advance to the front of the stage and
suggest, if Mrs. P. is in the house, that she might perhaps like to tell us about
the difference between Bach and Scarlatti. If she declines, as I expect she
will, I shall offer a few words of commiseration on the late night life of a
reviewer and suggest that, if by any chance she does not care to remain, an
usher will be glad to escort her to the door. I know that this episode will
probably be misreported, but the only condition on which I can undertake
it is that of never uttering a word about it afterward in the presence of any
journalist.
Everything last night went off according to plan, that is, up to a point. But
after Mrs. P. had declined my invitation to talk about Bach and Scarlatti and
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rick simeone
(Rick Simeone)
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